Gilded Cage
by jellybeanfactory
Summary: Gunter refuses to have his portrait painted and inconveniences a lot of important people.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Gilded Cage, Part I

Author: jellybeanfactory

Characters/Pairings: Gwendal/Gunter, a bit of a few other chars

Genre: AU, Slash

Rating: G for this part

Spoilers: none that I can recall

Disclaimer: Kyou Kara Maou belongs to Tomo Takabayashi. I make no profit from this fanfic.

Summary: Gunter refuses to have his portrait painted and inconveniences a lot of important people.

Notes: This is sort of a pre-Yuuri AU--Gwendal and Gunter are closer in age, and Gunter hasn't had direct dealings with the Maou or her family before. Beta'd by the wonderful MD, who also helped with the title, all remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

It was customary to have a family portrait commissioned soon after a new Maou's ascension. One would think this an enviable position for any artist in the realm, established or not. And it was, for the most part. Painters whose works were detailed in history books and adorned temple and castle walls wrote Cecile von Spitzburg to ask for this exact privilege. Quite a number even volunteered to waive their fees -- such was the fame of the beautiful Maou and her three sons. It took many months to select the right candidate, and it had been a unanimous vote of the family's -- one Master Hadrian Crom, two hundred and seventy years of age, well-versed in watercolors, acrylics, ink, silverpoint, charcoal, graphite, brass prints, marble sculptures, and, it was rumored, flower arrangement. But his preferred and most renowned medium was oils -- he'd been commissioned to do two previous Maou's portraits, and even little children of today still knew of his series of three-panel oil paintings depicting the Soushu-Shinou War. He was of an age and reputation that he only worked when it fancied him and if the subject matter tickled his interests. It took him two months to give Cecile an affirmative reply to her invitation.

Imagine Gwendal's surprise when, after donning his best formal robes lavished with the von Voltaire emblem and motif, he came down to the Grand Solar to find not a 270-year-old artist waiting for them, but a waifish, wet-behind-the-ears apprentice. Barely past his thirties and standing nervously at attention, with his bulky satchel overflowing with paints, brushes, and folded canvases.

"The Master sends his apologies," the nervous young man began, and then stopped, because Gwendal was glaring thinly at him. He shook and gripped his satchel tighter. "It--it wasn't my fault!"

"Where is Master Crom?" Gwendal asked, in what he vaguely hoped was a civil tone. He could hear his mother's light footsteps coming down the stairs behind him. "I'm assuming, for your sake, that you are some sort of placeholder for when he arrives later."

The young man looked like he very much wanted to protest and defend his professional integrity, but was too frightened to at the moment. "Master Crom is unfortunately preoccupied with a secondary commission. He sends his apologies, and bids you to kindly employ Apprentice Benedict's more than suitable skills. That's--that's me. Sir."

If the apprentice thought this explanation would assuage the young prince, he was sadly mistaken. "This is a royal family portrait, not some painting of whimsy--"

"Gwen." Cecile laid a placating hand on her eldest's arm. She smiled politely at the trembling artist. "We mean no insult to your talents, which I'm sure are considerable. But we specifically require Master Crom for this painting. We believe we've notified him in advance..."

"The Master is aware." Discomfort was plain on the young artist's face while he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "He simply...has business he cannot abandon at the moment."

Gwendal made an impatient noise in his throat. "Then tell us," he said, "what's keeping him preoccupied that's so important he's seen fit to ignore a prior engagement with the Maou's family?"

The artist gave him an apologetic glance. "The Master is trying to convince the younger von Christ to let him paint his portrait."

"Younger von Christ...?" Gwendal asked, his brows furrowed. "Lady Emeline?"

"I believe he meant the young lordling, Gwen. Gunter. Although he's the rightful lord now," Cecile corrected. At Gwendal's blank look, she continued, "Oh, come. You must have noticed him several years ago, during that vineyard opening celebration at their castle?"

He hadn't. Gwendal had, however, distinctly noticed the wine, which he had preoccupied himself with very thoroughly out in the balcony. "I believe I did not."

Cecile's eldest was most often the target of her "I can't take you anywhere, can I?" look. Today was no exception. (For reference, Conrart was most often the target of her "sometimes I don't know what to do with you" expression, and Wolfram her "you really are so very cute, but if there was a river nearby, I'd throw you into it.") "Well, you'd remember him if you'd been paying attention. He's a shy boy, and has--" she paused briefly at the slip, "--had. Difficulties with his father, and was often kept sequestered at their castle. A stunning lad, but it has been quite a while. I wonder what he looks like now."

"Probably the same," Gwendal muttered, disinterested. "Either way," he said to the artist, who snapped to attention, "it must have been a handsome sum, for your master to have abandoned his duties like this."

The young man swallowed. "Not a penny, my lord."

"'Not a p--" Gwendal halted himself mid-growl ("Breathe, Gwen," Cecile said helpfully from his side). "Explain."

"The commission with the late lord -- it wasn't a commission from the von Christ's family. It was a commission from my master to be allowed to paint the lordling's portrait. After his father's death, Lord Gunter canceled all prior and future engagements with all the artists his father had previously arranged." The artist was starting to look peeved despite the fearful quality with which he was regarding Gwendal's sword. "I'm not making this up, you know."

Cecile interjected before Gwendal could comment. "Master Crom is as well-known for his oddities as he is for his skills. I suppose something like this should have come as no surprise." She walked over to an unoccupied window seat and gestured to an empty settee opposite to her before she sat down. "Come, this might not be so bad, since you come highly recommended. Tell us a little more about yourself."

The young man kept a constant three-feet distance between himself and Gwendal while he scooted across the room. He looked extremely uncomfortable with his back turned to the Maou's eldest son, but then, faced with his potential employer, he seemed to quickly gather himself as he sat up straight and began removing various pieces of wrinkled paper from his satchel. "I have twelve recommendations from officials and artists I've worked for before, and here's Master Crom's letter," he handed a folded piece of parchment to Cecile, who obligingly received it and began skimming through the contents, "I know this may sound like I'm fluffing my own cravat, so to speak, but I don't jest when I say I'm one of the very few artists today sought-after for, and well-versed in, my artistic style."

"Master Crom certainly had many good things to say about you." Cecile re-folded the letter and handed it back to the young artist. "And what style did you say you practiced?"

"Oh, I haven't. Mentioned it, I mean." The artist smiled proudly as he opened a large book comprised of bound canvases. "It's neo-classical cubism."

The very polite "Oh" that Cecile said after that was the only word uttered within the next two minutes.

* * *

Apart from the initial outrage, Gwendal had to admit it wasn't such a large matter upon reflection. They agreed to merely wait until Master Crom was done with whatever silly quest he'd taken upon himself and then have the portraits done after. But then days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and their letters of inquiry went without reply. Speculations of whether or not the Master was even still in good health were answered when their messenger returned to report that the Master was, indeed, still very much alive and well. This was, however, accompanied with, "Master Crom is aware of his pending duties to the Maou, and will fulfill it when his current engagements have been met. He sends his regards and asks for a bit more patience."

While Gwendal was of the opinion that they can do without this portrait issue for all that he cared, he knew it was important to his mother. And, most unfortunately, it was also very important to Wolfram. His youngest brother was very put out that his older siblings had their individual portraits made a year prior to his current age, and he had absolutely no qualms in letting Gwendal (whom he had ascribed blame onto for the whole portrait business) know exactly what he thought about it. "Good morning" became "I want my portrait!" and "Pass the salt, please," became "I want my portrait!" and on those times he'd catch Gwendal doing important paperwork, he would inquire very pointedly if he'd written another letter to that silly artist and was he on his way to the castle yet or what?

What little patience Gwendal still had dwindled with every shrill complaint from his youngest sibling (Conrart was also curious about the matter, but was thankfully of that age where his every waking moment was occupied with a certain young woman from the von Wincott's family). The fact that Cecile was refraining from reining in Wolfram's rudeness was a clear sign she shared his sentiments, and was merely letting her youngest do all the legwork with regard to whining. Not that she'd ever admit to it.

"I don't know why you're so eager to sit for your portrait, Wolf," she told her youngest, while she primly cut through a thin slab of venison on her plate. "It's extremely dull, and the artists don't seem to like it when you try to talk to them."

Conrart, after swallowing a mouthful of bearbee honey juice, gave her a sideways glance. "You ask them uncomfortable questions," he playfully commented.

"Asking after someone's romantic interests is a perfectly acceptable topic of conversation."

"Not if you keep trying to foist your sons on them," he retorted (accompanied by Gwendal's soft, agreeing snort). "Or yourself, if they happen to be extremely attractive and of an age."

As was often the case, the topic of their mother's age segued inevitably into "Hush, dear, and eat your carrots."

Wolfram's annoyed voice was quick to steer the conversation back to its initial position. "Well _I_ wouldn't know, because _I've_ never had one!" He indignantly pointed at Conrart and said, "Even Weller has a portrait, and he managed to fit _that_ into his 'lusting after Julia von Wincott' schedule!"

Conrart nearly choked on his juice. "I was not!" he replied, sounding far too guilty to everyone at the table.

Cecile smiled delightedly at her middle child. "Oh, Conrad!" she exclaimed, gleefully clapping her hands together -- a reaction that may seem strange to some mothers, but Cecile was very vocal about her discontent that her children never seemed to get involved in any romances whatsoever. Her fears weren't unfounded, Gwendal thought. He was firmly convinced that Conrart might be their mother's best chance of ever having grandchildren. Her smile became a bit of a worried frown, though, when she said, "You _do_ know she's betrothed?"

"She _is_ betrothed, Conrart," Gwendal chimed in, careful to keep his amused glance pointed at his own plate.

"I don't...'lust' after her! Don't use that word," Conrart insisted. Gwendal successfully stifled a snicker. "All right, I _look_. Sometimes. When she visits and she's in the garden. Is it a crime to look at someone these days?"

"Normally, no," Gwendal languidly answered, "but it does become disturbing if the other person has absolutely no ability to see you."

Wolfram thumped his fork on the table. "I want my portrait!"

Gwendal merely suffered Conrart's glare with a beatific smile of his own. But then Conrart smiled impishly and said, while looking straight at his older brother, "You really should demand to get your portrait done as soon as possible, Wolfram. Mark of good breeding and all that. Best experience in the world, sitting for it."

The answering jealous, self-entitled scream that elicited successfully wiped any trace of Gwendal's amusement. He gave Conrart a very annoyed and ill-meaning look as Wolfram started yelling for his portrait and emphatically hitting the table.

Conrart, smart lad, knew to pick his battles. He hurriedly shoveled the remaining two bites of his food down his mouth and muttered a quick, "Have to go, practice!" prior to running toward the interior of the castle.

Both mother and son looked mournfully at a tantrum-laden Wolfram in the ensuing vacancy of conversation. Wolfram thankfully kept the tantrum short, yelled something that sounded like "I'll go write that artist _myself_!" and stalked off to his rooms.

"Mother," Gwendal said at length, when his brother's banging footsteps had faded into the distance, "I think Conrart's approaching that age where he'd serve as a perfectly fine soldier for our army, don't you? Let's start a war and throw him in the infantry."

Cecile laughed. "Be kinder to your brothers," she admonished her eldest, "I'm just happy Conrad and Wolf have taken to speaking so freely with each other again."

"Of a sort," Gwendal muttered. If Wolfram's occasional colorful variations of "half-breed" and "mongrel" could be considered within a mile of polite conversation. "I liked it better when they were fighting. There was peace and quiet."

"It does seem very curious, however," Cecile remarked after a moment's silence, her gaze distant. "Unless Master Crom's creating a five-panel mural, he certainly shouldn't be taking this long."

"Perhaps the lordling finds perfection fashionable. It's not unusual for pampered nobles to keep artists hostage until they've produced a painting flattering enough to their liking."

"Perhaps." Cecile traced the rim of her wineglass with a painted fingernail. "A personal visit might sway either lordling or artist in our favor though, don't you think?"

Gwendal sighed. He knew a nudge from his mother when he heard one. "At the very least," he acquiesced, "it will spare me a few weeks of Wolfram's nagging."

* * *

Neither mother nor son was sure whether or not to send word ahead to the von Christs warning of Gwendal's arrival -- in the end, he decided against it. Since he wasn't sure of the cause that may have been keeping the artist away from Blood Pledge Castle, he was worried that being notified of his impending presence might make the artist flee.

It was a few weeks' ride by horse due to keeping strictly to the main roads, though Gwendal wasn't about to complain, for it was also a few weeks' worth of blessed silence. He rarely had opportunity to travel of late, and he hadn't realized how sorely he'd missed riding Cedany, his coal-black mare. The climate turned somewhat chilly as he traveled through steeper curves in the terrain, though not invasively so. It was pleasant to a man like him, as it was the height of summer in the von Voltaire lands and he was used to hotter weather at this time of year. The von Christs' domain was well-known for its harsh winters.

He traversed through the town with no incidents. The early hour had a few bakers and coach drivers rousing from their houses and sluggishly preparing for the day. None of them gave him a second glance. He coaxed Cedany to a faster gallop toward the castle gatehouse, which was barely visible in the distance.

Gwendal was just mulling whether or not to use a postern gate to avoid all the pomp and circumstance that usually accompanied announcing himself at the portcullis, but a sorry-looking figure slumped at the roadside several feet away from the main gates caught his attention. He reared his horse toward him while calling loudly for the stranger's awareness.

"Who're you?" was the annoyed greeting Gwendal received from the old man. A makeshift tent was haphazardly built by the roadside and the scent of fried meat and eggs still lingered from the doused fire. Though the place looked built in a rush, it also looked well-lived in. Hunting gear and personal effects were visible from the widely thrown flap of the sad domicile.

Gwendal dismounted. He was careful to keep Cedany's reins wrapped tightly about his right hand. "I'm an emissary from Blood Pledge Castle. Do you require aid?"

His introduction had an immediate effect on the old man. He fixed Gwendal with a deep frown and said, "Oh lord. Another one. Look, I'm not budging here 'til that unreasonable boy lets me back in, so you can just go back to your big castle and tell the Maou that. Hurry on now, he wakes up around this time and it won't do for him to see you with me. He'll think we're conspiring or something."

Realization slowly crept into Gwendal during the old man's tirade. He glanced back at the open tent flaps and saw, just peeking from beneath piles of pans and clothes, bits of paper, brushes, and tiny bottles of many-colored paints. "_You're_ Master Hadrian Crom?"

"Disappointed you, have I?" Hadrian gleefully snickered. "That's what old age _does_, young man, so get used to it. Now, off with you. And next time someone from there thinks to nag me again, make sure he brings some wine and vinegar. I'm almost out."

His mother had always been of the opinion that ill thoughts of other people should never be released in public, and Gwendal did just that. Ignoring the many other things he wanted to say as reply to the impertinent tone, he simply answered with, "I'm Gwendal von Voltaire. I believe you accepted a commission from my mother, and I'm here to personally make sure you deliver."

The old man stopped and took a good, long look at Gwendal. It was an incredibly uncomfortable twenty seconds. "Oh. Huh." He scratched his chin and moved his gaze from head to foot, and back to head again. "Not what I expected. None of Cecile's curves in you, but a bucket of your father's face. Though maybe if you smile..." He shook his head, as if to dispel the image. "Well. This changes nothing, you realize."

"Tell me, then, what is the problem? It's been several weeks, surely an artist of your skill would have been finished with a simple portrait by now." Gwendal asked, and made a point of looking over the disheveled living conditions. "And why in Shinou's name are you living like a vagrant by the road? There's a perfectly acceptable inn just a few miles south."

"I'm making a point! That capricious _boy_ thinks he can just lock me out after a three-year contract with his father just because the miserable old coot had the temerity to die on me! Bloody bastard." He directed his glare at the still thoroughly closed iron portcullis and, to Gwendal's alarm, began to yell at it, "You hear that? Oh, I know you're awake! Your father was a conniver and a terrible poker player, but he kept his promises!"

"Can he actually hear you from here?" Gwendal curiously asked. Hadrian's indignation didn't seem to move either the portcullis or any resident of the castle.

"Oh, he hears me. Or sees me, at any rate. Has his mother's gift of scrying. Used to go riding when he thought I was asleep." He made a tired shake of his head and sat on the ground. "I was lined up next," he said very mournfully. "You know who got to paint him last? Lefrick! That slimy old hack who couldn't paint asymmetrically if his life depended on it! Eyes on his paintings go like this," he used his fingers to indicate opposite directions. "He'll be boasting all about it in the next National Artists' Banquet, you mark my words."

Gwendal laid a calming hand on Cedany's flank. She never did like staying still for very long. "Have you two had prior disagreements? What reason does he have for not letting you in and simply sitting for a painting?"

Hadrian snorted. "We talked a few times while his father was alive, but never much beyond that. Gave him his first easel when he was twelve. Who knows what his reasons are? He won't tell me. Just up and tore up the contract and wrote me a letter apologizing for the inconvenience et cetera et cetera, saying at the end that I'm never to paint him. Ever."

"Odd behavior," Gwendal helpfully commented. And highly inconvenient, he thought to himself. He wished to be done with his purpose there and it seemed he'd be stalled for who knew how long still. "Perhaps a nudge from a member of the royal family will set him straight." Gwendal was beginning to form a negative opinion of artists, but he couldn't help feeling the slightest bit sorry for the old man. "Gather your things, we're heading inside."

Hadrian threw him an incredulous look, even as he began to stand up on creaking joints and push some of his things into a large saddlebag. "He won't open the gates for me, you know."

"No, but it's unlawful to keep _me_ out and waiting without a good enough reason, often along the lines of plague or civil war. And neither seems to be afflicting the von Christs at the moment."

The artist finished shoving his things into the large bag, which he strapped around his shoulder. "Perks of the job, I see." He sighed and looked up at the forbidding wall of steel and iron in front of them. "I've never been treated this rudely for over a hundred years! Doesn't he know I'm a national treasure?!"

"The title has less merit if you use it on yourself like that," Gwendal muttered. He pulled Cedany's reins and led the way to the base of the portcullis. It took ten seconds for a window on the gatehouse to open and inquire after their identities and purpose. Gwendal duly introduced himself and showed his signet. "I and my companion seek audience with Lord Gunter von Christ."

The window closed again, and a tense half minute followed, with rather worrying sounds of disagreement drifting from the guard's station. Eventually, the screech and groan of the portcullis being lifted drowned them out. Gwendal and Hadrian waited until they were fully raised before proceeding on foot.

They were barely five meters in when Hadrian gave an agitated groan. "Oh here we go," he whispered under his breath, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead. Gwendal followed his line of sight.

In the distance, Gwendal could make out a long-haired young man--perhaps about his age or older--walking with some urgency in their direction. The closer he came, the more Gwendal forgot to breathe -- he looked quite the vision with his silver hair flying and snapping behind him and his flashing eyes alight with a fierce, determined expression.

Gwendal was used to being surrounded by beauty -- he came from good stock, after all, and was always surrounded by both von Voltaire and von Bielfeld retinues, most of which were comprised of hand-picked and able attractive young men. But he'd simply never seen anyone even remotely similar to the youth approaching them at that moment. His companion's hands twitched toward his saddlebag--it looked like an aborted attempt to withdraw his sketch book.

"Be off with you!" the furious young man yelled, gesturing impatiently with his hands as if he were shooing stray sheep. "I've warned you, Hadrian! I don't care who your friend is, one foot closer, and I'll set my guards on you!"

It was a shame, Gwendal thought, that although his initial impression of Gunter was nothing short of divine beauty, he could not help but think he was not being very beautiful right now by being so disagreeable. He was about to introduce himself again, when a very harried-looking guard slid down (or crashed down -- there was a lot of clanging noises involved) from the gatehouse and ran toward his lord. When he reached the incensed young noble, he whispered urgently in his ear.

Some of the color drained from Gunter's face. He dismissed the guard with a brief nod and thanks. To Gwendal, he said, with a bit more restraint, "My apologies for the display, Your Royal Highness. You are, of course, always welcome in my lands and will be admitted shortly into the castle." Then he directed his vicious glare back to the hopeful artist standing beside the prince. "The artist, however, is not. I believe I've made that perfectly clear, Hadrian."

Hadrian's quick protest of "But I'm with him!" collided rather neatly with Gwendal's "He's with me."

Gunter's frown deepened. "That is unfortunate, because only His Highness is allowed proceed."

"I require his presence for the matters I need to discuss with you." Gwendal gave a brief, dramatic pause. "This stubborn refusal to let an aging man seek refuge in your castle speaks very ill of you, Lord von Christ."

Gunter's eyes narrowed a fraction. "With all due respect, Prince von Voltaire, this is still my castle and you cannot strong arm me into changing my mind."

Gwendal grit his teeth. "I'm attempting nothing of the sort. But surely just an hour's conversation within--"

"_No_," Gunter firmly interrupted. "This is not negotiable."

They glared at each other.

Hadrian spent a moment just looking curiously from one to the other. "He has a point," he said eventually while indicating Gwendal with a tilt of his head. Just as Gunter opened his mouth to utter an incensed reply, he quickly said with a frustrated tone, "Gunter, what's the _harm_, this portrait was agreed upon for years, I just wish to--"

When Gunter interrupted this time, he sounded a bit more tired than angry. "Hadrian, old friend, you must learn to accept a simple no at some point in your life. I am sorry it is a lesson you must swallow during the twilight of your years, but obviously, it cannot be helped." While Hadrian choked and sputtered on his reply (and even Gwendal had to internally wince at how harshly Gunter admonished the old man), Gunter said solely to the prince, "My guards will be instructed to allow only His Highness to enter. I will await within if you still wish to speak. A good morrow to you gentlemen."

Gunter turned on his heel and strode back through the front doors of his castle.

"It was a good try, lad," Hadrian sighed after having composed himself. "You go right in. I'll just head back down to my tent -- I think I'm wearing him down a bit."

A migraine was threatening to settle behind Gwendal's temples. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This wasn't supposed to be this difficult. It's just a bloody painting." He raised his head and looked squarely at Hadrian. "Just come back to Blood Pledge Castle with me. You can always return here when you're at least done with Wolfram's portrait."

The old artist snorted. "Oh, sure! That's what they said about Lord Montfort, and look what happened to _him_. Dead, at a hundred and five! I never know when you nobles are going to just topple over--"

"I hardly think Lord Gunter and his unmarked lily-white skin will be involved in any skirmishes within the year. Or in his lifetime."

"No! He could be pale because he's sickly! I'm not taking any chances!"

"Well," Gwendal said. He had tried his best. "Suit yourself."

He watched with some sense of foreboding as the old man began walking back to the portcullis. Though slightly vexing, he felt a little more grounded with Hadrian's presence nearby than without it in the confines of that cold, unfamiliar castle.

His thoughts turned back to the disagreeable young lord waiting within. High-strung nerves were telling him flat-out to turn around, mount Cedany, and head back to Blood Pledge Castle to search for a different artist. But Gwendal had a duty, and he was determined not to go home without results.

Besides, knowing his family, if he went home now he'd just get sent back out again armed with new instructions on how he should have handled the situation.

* * *

- Part II to follow


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Gilded Cage, Part II

Author: jellybeanfactory

Characters/Pairings: Gwendal/Gunter, a bit of other chars

Genre: AU, Slash

Rating: PG-13 for this part

Spoilers: none

Disclaimer: Kyou Kara Maou belongs to Tomo Takabayashi. I make no profit from this fanfic.

Summary: Gunter refuses to have his portrait painted and inconveniences a lot of important people.

Notes: This fic has become longer than I first anticipated, so apologies for the delay. Beta'd by the wonderful MD.

* * *

Meeting Lady Emeline von Christ was as surreal as meeting her son had been. Gwendal was immediately struck with an eerie likeness to Lady Sarah von Wincott, Julia von Wincott's mother. He wondered vaguely if the two family trees had crossed paths at some point in time.

Gunter was nowhere in sight. Gwendal breathed a small prayer of thanks to Shinou.

They formally exchanged greetings. Emeline gestured for Gwendal to sit beside her on a lavishly-upholstered sofa. "My pardon, Prince Gwendal, but we received no notice of your arrival. We'd have sent escorts if we'd known."

"We sent no notice," Gwendal replied. "I thought this to be a simple matter of removing an old artist from your castle, but I had not anticipated...difficulties."

"Oh, if only it were simpler." Emeline wore an expression that closely resembled Gwendal's feelings on the matter. "This show of wills has been going on for almost three months now. It's extremely tiresome."

"I can only imagine." Though Gwendal had a feeling he was about to gain first-hand experience with it in the coming days. Or weeks. Or months. He repressed a shiver. "If I may ask, why does Lord Gunter refuse to have his portrait painted?"

Gwendal did not think he had asked a loaded question, but that was how it felt when Emeline avoided answering by retrieving cup and saucer from the nearby table and taking a few sips of the tea. When she put the cup down again, she replied with yet another question, "You have met my son?"

_Unfortunately_, Gwendal thought. "Yes. I tried entering with Master Crom, and Lord Gunter was quick to inform us of his disapproval at the castle gates."

Emeline tsk'd. "You must forgive him his lapse in manners. He's normally very polite. As for his portrait...I'm afraid I'm in no position to divulge his reasons." She held up a hand to stay Gwendal's question. "He and his father disagreed on many things. My...inaction, shall we say, during those years when he might have benefited from my assistance caused him a great deal of pain. I am not in his good graces right now, and so cannot speak for him."

Gwendal gave a crooked half-smile. "If we count Master Crom outside, and Lord Gunter's continued ill disposition, our numbers may yet continue to grow."

His attempt at levity was rewarded with Emeline's sudden laughter. "Indeed! It's certainly not diminishing." Some of the gaiety left her voice when she continued. "I thought, perhaps, with his father's passing, he'd be more grounded to the present. Perhaps eventually make peace with his father's memory. But he's gone into this personal crusade, and he's angered quite a number of people already."

"That is unfortunate," Gwendal uncertainly remarked.

Emeline seemed to hesitate. "If I may be so bold as to ask, how long does His Highness plan on staying?"

"Longer than I first intended to," he replied ruefully. "I wish to return accompanied by Master Crom, but this might take a few more attempts."

She nodded. "The castle is your home 'til then, if it pleases Your Highness." A small smile curved her lips. "I must admit to some relief. I think having company close to Gunter's age will be of some help to him."

"I doubt I'd be better company than his friends."

"That's under the assumption he has any," she smoothly replied. Gwendal raised an eyebrow. "His father kept him sequestered here for most of his life. He sought to keep Gunter 'unsullied' from various influences, and that included other children. He does have a few friends, artists my husband often employed. But with his decree regarding portraiture and a few other matters, Gunter himself has managed to estrange all of them lately."

"Still," Gwendal replied, feeling vaguely disturbed with this new information, "I highly doubt I could make much of a difference. Our first conversation wasn't exactly genial."

Emeline smiled. "We shall see."

There was a polite knock on one of the entrances to the great chamber. At Emeline's welcome, the door opened and a guard wearing the von Christ military uniform stood at attention. "His Highness's rooms are ready."

"Excellent." To Gwendal, she said, "We have dinner at eight, breakfast at nine, lunch at twelve, and tea at three. The castle is yours to use, so please, feel free to explore."

Gwendal thanked her. They made their brief farewells, with Emeline managing to extract a promise from him to accompany her through a walk in the garden. Gwendal was escorted to his rooms.

As the guard left and the door closed behind him, Gwendal took a long, sweeping look at what would probably be a familiar sight for the next few weeks. The room was fairly generic, but very well-furnished. The dressers were decked with various scents, oils, and powders. At a corner lay a writing desk, sporting new stationery with the von Christ coat of arms, pen, and inkwell. The bed was a grand four-poster affair with thick linens and a plush, smooth comforter.

The view outside the window was exquisite, affording him a panoramic sweep of the wild forests bordering the fringes of the castle walls. Gwendal walked over to the large closet and saw, upon opening it, that it also had been prepared for his stay. It was filled with various pieces of clothing of about his size, in colors that ranged from warm to cool.

He let out a soft sigh and picked out a modest set of plain ashen tunic, dark brown trousers and a matching waistcoat. He laid them out on the bed and proceeded to the doors leading to his private baths, the promise of a blissful half hour soaking in scented water chasing away the sore protests of tired bones after a long day of relentless riding. Thoughts of his earlier expedition reminded Gwendal that perhaps he should check up on his horse prior to dinner. Cedany abhorred being shacked up close to stallions.

He refused to think of yet another stubborn young man whose distaste of others lacked both cause and reason. There would be plenty of time to deal with that later.

* * *

It was a testament to Gwendal's perpetual bad luck that the simple act of checking up on his beloved horse would bring him back to the cold presence of the young lord. His unmistakable build was apparent even from a distance, and Gwendal saw as he came closer that he was occupied with _nuzzling_ Cedany, his porcelain face pressed intimately against the mare's coal-black muzzle, pale hands very slowly stroking the long length of her neck.

Gwendal had to keep the immediate "Stay away from my horse" shackled firmly to the tip of his tongue. He glared ineffectually at the other man, whose closed eyes and peaceful expression indicated that he'd either failed to detect Gwendal's arrival, or was choosing to ignore it.

"What exactly is it you're doing to my horse?" Gwendal eventually said, laying a bit more stress on the last two words than necessary.

He felt extremely disgruntled (and maybe a little betrayed) when both horse and man broke contact to concurrently glare at him.

"You haven't been treating her well," was Gunter's simple reply.

The accusing quality of his voice played a discordant tune on Gwendal's nerves. "She lacks in neither food nor care. Now, if you don't mind--"

"You only visit her when you have somewhere to go," Gunter calmly interrupted. His cool, disapproving look squarely met Gwendal's irate gaze. "She's very lonely."

"She has daily trainers for company."

That reply earned Gwendal a derisive snort from the young man, who turned his attentions back to the mare. "Like I said -- she's very lonely." Cedany rudely butted her head against Gunter's, an apparent nudge for him to resume his earlier activities. The young man didn't seem to mind and slowly rubbed his cheek against the side of her face and began stroking her neck again.

Gwendal refused to feel like he was intruding. There was something very oddly arousing about watching a beautiful person handle a horse that way, he realized. Feeling very much like a voyeur, he opted to merely divert his attentions to checking on Cedany's trough, stirrups, and saddle, making sure everything was intact and fit for the next ride out.

It took a good ten minutes, and when he straightened and stretched, he found Gunter watching him. He quietly met his gaze until the young lord broke the silence. "The clothes suit you."

Gwendal blinked and looked down at his garments. He ran a self-conscious hand over the brown waistcoat. "I've yet to thank you and your mother for accommodating me, though I brought clothes of my own. You didn't have to go out of your way to gather new ones for my stay."

"We didn't," Gunter replied. There was something odd in his voice. Gwendal looked at him but could find no trace of emotion on his face. "Those were my father's."

The revelation hung like an awkward cloud. Gwendal was just about to offer changing into his own clothing when Gunter said a soft, "Good evening, Your Highness," and walked out of the stables.

* * *

After five minutes of worrying (which caused Gwendal some degree of annoyance, for he prided himself in being a person who didn't dwell upon trivial matters), he decided to forego changing out of the late lord's clothes. He figured that it was Emeline who had arranged for the garments to be in his closet, and if Gunter found it not to his liking, then he could just damn well take it up with his mother.

Dinner was a tense and mostly quiet affair. Only the sounds of cutlery hitting expensive porcelain filled the dining hall after the initial round of greetings. Gunter kept his eyes mostly on his plate and seemed content enough to ignore the other two occupants of the table.

After the first course, Lady Emeline remarked on the weather. Gwendal agreed with her.

It was during the second course that Gunter broke the stifling silence with an off-hand remark. "Is the food to His Highness's liking?" he said, after dabbing his lips with a napkin. "We're a very well-stocked castle, you see."

Gwendal was a little puzzled by this sudden show of amiability, and was about to reply in the affirmative when Emeline's voice preceded him. "Gunter," she simply said, though the name carried with it a stern warning.

Gunter merely gave his mother a brief glance and went back to eating.

The curious prince stuck to his manners and left the odd comments alone. The third course passed without incident, and, as soon as Emeline took a final sip of her wine, Gunter politely excused himself and left the dining hall.

Gwendal took his time folding his napkin as the light footsteps faded. He heard Emeline sigh and looked at her while he placed the folded cloth on the table.

"I think I'll take that walk in the garden now," she said, and rose. Gwendal nodded and followed suit.

He offered her his arm as they came upon the eastern exit leading to the Palace Gardens, a wide hall branching off from the Oratory. They walked in companionable silence for a while, Gwendal occasionally commenting on the beauty of the gardens and answering Emeline's questions about Blood Pledge Castle's own greenhouses and conservatories. She seemed to take particular delight in his tale about his mother's tendency to breed flowers and name the more successful results after her sons.

"There is wisdom in having more than one," she wistfully said. "Which is not to say I'm unhappy with the one I have...but Gunter can be very set in his ways. A stubbornness he ironically inherited from his late father."

"You say that like it's unfavorable," Gwendal remarked.

Emeline gave him a pointed look. "It's not if it has foundation. My son's barely been outside of the castle walls, much less learned enough of the world he's living in to form an educated opinion."

"And what sort of educated opinion was he supposed to form," Gwendal slowly asked, keenly aware of Emeline's sharp gaze on him, "by seeing me within his father's clothes?"

She at least had the grace to look slightly abashed. "I didn't think he'd tell you."

"He didn't seem overly upset, if that was what you were aiming for."

"I meant no disrespect. Truly." She stopped walking and turned to fully face him. Her expression spoke of nothing but sincerity. "It merely seemed fitting. Edmund, may Shinou bless his soul, was a cousin twice removed from the von Voltaires. A few choice deaths in your family line and he could have been an heir apparent to your lands." She briefly paused, considering. "Just think of it as heirloom returning to their rightful owner."

"I don't appreciate games," Gwendal firmly said, his gaze squarely meeting Emeline's. "There are no other reasons for giving me your husband's clothes?"

"Of course," Emeline said with one of the most guileless smiles Gwendal had ever witnessed. "What other reason could I have had?"

* * *

Gwendal was starting to wonder whose company he was beginning to dislike more -- the son's or the mother's. Something about Emeline's demeanor set off warning bells in his head, and, finding the place far too stifling to his liking, he requested a few bottles of aged wine from the cellars and headed for the castle gates. There was one other person in the vicinity whose company wouldn't drive him insane, and perhaps a wine bottle or two would make him more susceptible to being coerced into relocation.

He couldn't have been more than halfway through the bailey when he heard the loud creak of the castle doors opening and closing behind him, followed by a series of rushed footsteps headed in his direction. He didn't pause or slow his pace. Soon enough, Gunter was beside him, looking rather splendid in his outfit of gold-trimmed white trousers, tunic, and sheer surcoat of fine silk thrown about his shoulders like a wispy scarf. His hair had been haphazardly drawn up into a high ponytail, a few strands slipping from the loose hold and framing his face, the wet tips indicative of a recent bath.

Gwendal secretly hoped it was a very good, relaxing bath his departure had interrupted. Served him right for spying.

"Where are you going?" Gunter asked, his tone breathless and put out.

"That statement's missing two words," Gwendal observed.

There was a pause as Gunter puzzled over this. Gwendal could see just when realization dawned on him as that puzzled frown turned into a baleful glare. "Your Highness," Gunter dryly amended.

"I," Gwendal amiably said, "am taking some of your very well-stocked liqueur and bringing it to the very old, very exhausted, self-declared national treasure haunting your castle gates." He gestured for the nightwatch to raise the portcullis.

Gunter looked panicked. "You can't feed him!"

"Why not?" Gwendal asked curiously.

"He'll think it a favorable sign and stay longer." Gunter tried to grab a bottle from Gwendal's hands, but the prince was quick to move it away. "I've been wearing him down recently, and you'll undo all my hard work!"

"You'll wear him straight down to a death knell," Gwendal muttered, giving the incensed lord a glare of his own. "Besides, it's hardly feeding him if I'm giving him _wine_. If I get him drunk enough, he might agree to go with me back to Blood Pledge Castle. Or be pliant enough to be dragged away from here."

The frown was wiped clear from Gunter's surprised face. "I...I see," he said in a small voice, sounding far less agitated. Before them, the portcullis slowly opened. "Well," Gunter continued, still sounding perturbed, "you still can't go. You've no escort."

Gwendal gave him an incredulous look. "Have you never been out without an escort before?" Then he paused, as if remembering who he was talking to. "No, don't answer that." He shook his head and walked under the raised portcullis.

Gunter had stopped following him as he crossed the drawbridge. He half-expected the young lord to call for a guard to come down from the watchtower to accompany him, but the long moment's silence told him he did nothing of the sort. He did, however, hear a familiar set of footsteps trying to catch up from behind him, and Gwendal found himself utterly surprised when Gunter reappeared at his side, looking ill-at-ease and out of place.

"I can't allow you to walk about unattended," was the cheerless explanation.

"You could have just called a guard," Gwendal said, tilting his head toward the occupied gatehouse.

Gunter gave him a strange look. "Protocol dictates that the lord of the castle should accompany any members of the royal family on any expeditions within his lands if he is not otherwise engaged."

Gwendal raised an eyebrow at him. "According to whom?"

"My teachers. The books." As if just realizing how naive that sounded, he immediately followed with, "I'm sure my mother will say something similar if you ask her."

It was almost a word-for-word citation from "An Aristocrat's Primer to Military Etiquette," the same book the prince had been forced to familiarize himself with when he was younger. Gwendal was almost impressed. He knew of the rule, of course, but he also knew why it was in place. "And for what purpose is it that the lord of the castle should accompany the royal family on these instances?"

"Security," was the confident reply. "Castle lords are often well-trained in combat, familiar with the landscape of their domain, and can best handle any unforeseen violence aimed toward the Maou and his or her family."

"And are you armed?"

Gunter looked very unarmed and very embarrassed.

Gwendal sighed.

"I'll just head back in and get my sword, then--"

"No, no," he said, and quickly grabbed Gunter's wrist before the flighty young man could run back through the closing gates, "I'm armed enough for both of us -- you're going to stay with me and help me get your artist friend drunk and happy."

"Yes, Your Highness." The young lord let himself get dragged along with no further argument. Gwendal guessed he was that embarrassed.

Hadrian Crom was anything but pleased when the two appeared at his makeshift camp. His long-winded spiel about being visited just as nighttime had fallen and he could barely see much less paint anything from the poor campfire was neatly interrupted when Gwendal dangled the wine bottles in front of him. Soon, all three were gathered about the fire, cradling crude cups made from fruit husks filled to the brim with precious 100-year old vintage.

The initial blow out of placing Gunter and Hadrian in the same vicinity wasn't as bad as Gwendal feared. The cycle was merely variations of Hadrian whinging, Gunter threatening, and Gwendal offering more wine. Gunter wasn't vicious at all if being painted was never mentioned, Gwendal observed, but as soon as it was, it felt like Hadrian's frustrations were bouncing off of a steel wall.

He felt a little annoyed that Gunter kept a close watch on his own wine, but so long as it was flowing freely for Hadrian, he supposed he shouldn't complain. The old man was proving to be a drinking partner with great endurance, however. Two bottles in, and his judgment was barely compromised.

"This wine is older than both of you!" the old artist had gleefully said, while waving a half-empty bottle at the other two men. "And so'm I, so you can get those ideas of softening me with liquor out of your heads!"

Six bottles of the rich wine, and Gwendal managed to not only render the artist incoherent (and, therefore, unable to give assent) but also halfway unconscious. His snores were about as loud as the crackling fire. Gunter gave the artist a fond look before feeding another dry log to the flames.

"I probably should have warned you that he could drink my father under the table," the young lord said while Gwendal busied himself with picking up the remaining empty bottles from beside the snoring man.

The prince gave him a glare. "I could have used the warning, yes," he muttered. He looked at Hadrian and wondered just how difficult it would be to sling the old man on a horse and cart him off to Blood Pledge Castle in his state.

Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face. Gunter said with no small amount of amusement, "He'll just return if you drag him away. I was hoping your liqueur ploy would work in changing his mind, but alas..."

Gwendal sighed. "This really is far too much trouble than it's worth." He promised himself just two or three more tries, and then he'd ride back to Blood Pledge Castle without the artist and have a firm word with Wolfram and his mother. With an unhappy growl, he knelt on the rough ground and began clearing some of the dead wood from the fringes of the blazing fire.

Silence reigned for a few minutes. He surprised himself by breaking it, albeit hesitantly. "Cedany's lonely, is she?"

Gunter hesitated as well before replying. "Neglected. She understands why you must be away so often, but a horse can only take so much without feeling discouraged. The span of time between your holding her reins has become longer and longer the past few years."

"And you know this how?"

Gunter gave a self-conscious smile. "I have a way with horses. I think it might be because I've spent a great deal of time in their company since I was small, but one of my teachers said the empathy I've formed with the species might be the marks of an air user. He said I might be a good fit for that element."

Gwendal frowned. "You've not formed a covenant yet?"

"No. Should I have?" He looked genuinely puzzled.

The prince nodded slowly. "People who show prowess at an early age are often encouraged to, yes."

"...I see." Gunter drew his legs up and wrapped his arms about his knees. He looked a bit chilled -- and considering his fineries, Gwendal supposed he was. The night air felt cold and Gunter was wearing comparatively thin clothing. "It was probably under my father's instruction that my teachers told me I was not allowed to."

Gwendal had personally never heard of a mazoku denied their rightful maryoku training in their youth. Although it was peacetime, there was a severe lack of skilled elemental users in the army as it was, and magical skill was considered a valuable commodity. Gwendal tried to imagine life without having formed a covenant with Earth, and found he could not.

He avoided Gunter's gaze then and cleared his throat, calling the other youth's attention to him while he poked restlessly at the fire. "It's not difficult," he muttered, "I can help you if you wish."

Gunter said nothing for a long moment. Gwendal chanced a glance at him and saw the young lord gazing at him with wide eyes. "I...truly? You would help me?"

Gwendal raised an eyebrow. "You look surprised. Do I seem that cold a person to you?"

"Yes. I mean no! No, but," Gunter's shoulder lifted slightly in a sign of unease, "I was told there were ceremonies, rituals, proper prayers, I...it did not sound simple at all."

"A description of a process that was probably also your father's influence. Forming a covenant simply requires your faith and a leaning toward a specific element. Shinou's Will takes care of the rest." He made a brief pause. "I oversaw my brother's covenant." It was not a pleasant memory, but still. "I believe I can manage yours."

For a while, Gwendal thought Gunter would refuse -- he looked so uncomfortable with the idea. Then he tentatively smiled, and though it was small, the smile easily reached his eyes. "If you could spare the time, I would be most grateful. But I have to warn you, it will not change my stance on your current...problem." He looked pointedly at a snoring Hadrian.

Gwendal shrugged and returned to adding more wood to the fire. "Think of it as my inability to let a potentially powerful mazoku go to waste."

"I have misjudged you," the young lord quietly said. "You are too kind. Your--Your Highness."

Gwendal threw him an amused look at the slip. He'd not been calling Gunter on it since the first time the young lord forgot the honorific, finding it oddly endearing. "You may as well just call me Gwendal," he suggested, a smirk curving his lips.

Gunter looked embarrassed. Even through the fire's light, he could see a blush staining his cheeks. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to forget my place with you. I've never called anyone 'Your Highness' before, and I never thought I would on someone that, well..."

"Someone you could have been playing hide-and-seek with just twenty years ago?"

Gunter laughed uncertainly. "Yes." After a while, he added, "Although imagining you playing hide-and-seek is like thinking of a woodsman dancing a ballet."

"I have it on good authority that I happen to be very well-versed in hide-and-seek." Thoughts of Anissina von Kapelnikoff filtered through his memories. He shivered. "For maybe less than ideal reasons."

His good humor faded a little when he saw Gunter's echoing expression. The young lord's gaze was distant, his unseeing eyes reflecting the fire. "I, too."

The silence felt heavy to Gwendal, but he could think of nothing to say to disperse it. He could think of very little at all, in fact -- his head was still somewhat clouded with wine, and Gunter's skin looked warm and inviting half-hidden in the soft shadows. Sadness fit the young lord more than laughter did, he idly thought. For a moment, he could understand Hadrian's obsessive desire to lay that vision to canvas.

Gunter issued a soft sigh, and the moment was broken. Gwendal bowed his head and made a show of stacking the bottles together and tying the wide caps with a piece of twine, preparing them to be carried back to the castle later. Beside him, he heard a smile in Gunter's voice as he said, "If it pleases Your Highness -- Gwendal, then you may also call me Gunter."

"Gunter," Gwendal obligingly said, finding the name appealing on his tongue. "I believe I shall."

* * *

Part III to come.


End file.
